


Middlings

by Quillfox



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Character Death, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Vampire Jaskier, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillfox/pseuds/Quillfox
Summary: Jaskier’s posturing was interrupted as the commander shifted, bringing his blade across Jaskier’s neck, its sharp edge opening it with ease. He gagged and let out a high-pitched whine, his face paling as blood began to flow down his neck and onto his doublet, staining the pale blue silk a dark crimson.Geralt felt time slow. For that moment he was lost, as he watched the life drain from Jaskier. He could hear the cries for Geralt he let out, each quieter than the last, taste his blood in the air. He sat, frozen by shock and restrained by his bonds, as his bard was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, a final gasp of air escaping his blood-soaked mouth. He felt something blossom in his chest, radiating from below his heart as if he had been struck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 346





	1. Bloody Beginnings

The Nilfgaardian’s axe swung towards Geralt, cleaving through the air where he had stood a moment ago, the force of the blow planting its blade firmly in the ground. Geralt twisted away from his assailant, reaching unconsciously for his steel sword. He unsheathed the blade and slashed it across the chest of the recovering Black One, cutting clean through the wrinkled leather and deep into the flesh underneath. The man sputtered, blood pooling in his mouth and dripping between his open lips before he collapsed to the forest floor.

Geralt took a step back and surveyed the battlefield, his pupils widening and nostrils flaring. The small camp he and Jaskier had made was overrun by Nilfgaardians, at least ten soldiers, almost an entire unit. Each armed for battle in traditional Imperial black and gold armour, with the pale sun rising on their breastplate, and weapons made from dark steel in their hands.

Two Nilfgaardians moved towards Geralt from across the campsite, swords drawn. He gestured with his left hand, letting the stream of fire from Igni cascade towards the soldiers, engulfing them. The heavy plate they were wearing quickly overheated, and the men fell to the ground twitching as the smell of burning flesh filled the clearing.

Geralt moved forward, feet light as he stepped over the bodies, his sword raised in defense towards the eight remaining soldiers. One of the Nilfgaardians leaned forward, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly around his sword’s hilt. Geralt closed the distance in seconds with his enhanced reflexes, and swung at the soldier, leaving a deep gash in the man’s armour and severing his sword hand. Before any of the other Nilfgaardians could react, Geralt spun backwards to distance himself from the group, landing softly. He readied his blade for another attack but stopped as a loud struggle broke the silence of the clearing.

“Oh fuck not the neck, not the neck.” The familiar cry of Jaskier broke the silence of the clearing, the bard’s voice warbling in fear. “Geralt! Help!”

The Witcher pivoted, lowering his sword. Geralt saw another soldier, which he had missed in the chaos. A soldier with the full winged helmet of Nilfgaard commanders, who’s dark sword pressed against Jaskier’s throat.

“Surrender vatt’ghern, and the bard may live” the Nilfgaardian spat out, accent heavy. Jaskier squirmed against the armoured man, eyes wide with panic and face pale. The bard began to protest, but soon stopped as the commander’s grip tightened, blood seeping from the edge pressed against his neck. He let out a small yelp, then fell silent. 

Geralt hesitated for a second, furrowed his brow and then dropped his sword. The metal thumping against the ground as he met the Nilfgaardian’s cold gaze.

“What do you want?” he asked, jaw clenched, and teeth bared. 

The Nilfgaardian paused and loosened his grip on Jaskier “The White Flame wishes to speak with you. Regarding your child of surprise.”

Geralt swore, then grimaced. “I don’t know where she is. You can tell his highness that.” he all but spat out.

“Mhmm. You can tell him that yourself Witcher” Said the accented drawl of the commander. He barked out a command in Nilfgaardian to his men, who began to encircle the witcher. 

Geralt felt the air behind him shift, and a second later a heavy force hit him, knocking him down to his knees. One of the Nilfgaardians grabbed his arms, restraining him. Geralt could have fought back, easily overpowering the man, and the entire unit, but couldn’t as long as Jaskier remained in danger. He wouldn’t let another person die because of his mistakes. So, he let the soldiers take his weapons and bind him. 

Once Geralt was pacified, the commander spoke to his men, gesturing at the campsite. The soldiers made quick work of the few supplies Geralt had left in the open, as well as Jaskier’s lute, breaking the neck over a knee. The bard let out a huff at the disrespectful treatment of his instrument, making a face at Geralt.

Jaskier’s posturing was interrupted as the commander shifted, bringing his blade across Jaskier’s neck, its sharp edge opening it with ease. He gagged and let out a high-pitched whine, his face paling as blood began to flow down his neck and onto his doublet, staining the pale blue silk a dark crimson. 

Geralt felt time slow. For that moment he was lost, as he watched the life drain from Jaskier. He could hear the cries for Geralt he let out, each quieter than the last, taste his blood in the air. He sat, frozen by shock and restrained by his bonds, as his bard was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, a final gasp of air escaping his blood-soaked mouth. He felt something blossom in his chest, radiating from below his heart as if he had been struck. 

Geralt roared and began to fight against his bindings, pulling at the taught rope. He struggled to his feet as the soldiers around him began to react, surrounding him. One of the men moved towards him, sword drawn. The Witcher moved to doge his swipe, stepping backwards, colliding with another of the soldiers. He stumbled and fell.

Geralt looked up and saw the commander wiping his blood-stained gauntlets on his undershirt, before one of the soldiers struck him on the back of the head and the world became dark.

Geralt awoke some while later, the warm afternoon sun warm against his skin. His head pounded and his muscles were sore. He lay on the ground for a second, revelling in the glory of his continued existence, before the morning’s events came back to him all at once. The Nilfgaardians, the fight, Jaskier.

Fuck, Jaskier.

In an instant, Geralt snapped from his reverie and stumbled to his feet. His arms had been unbound, the frayed rope lying at his feet, the ends looking as though they had been torn by a great force. The Witcher looked around, scanning for his bard. While he did not see Jaskier, he was met with a brutal sight. 

Bodies littered the clearing, their innards torn from their chests and spread across the ground, armour cut cleanly through. All wore the dark colours of Nilfgaard. Geralt grimaced at the carnage, his experience as a witcher allowing him to remain focused. By the sheer level of brutality, as well as the positions of the dead, this had been the work of a monster. 

_An exceptionally effective monster_ , Geralt thought. The bodies looked to be in almost the exact same positions as he remembered the men being in as if they died where they stood.

His witcher instinct kicking in, Geralt pushed down his desperation to find his bard, instead moving to determine the cause of the massacre. He looked closely at the nearest body, crouching to get closer with the mutilated corpse. Nose wrinkling at the scent of curdled blood and viscera.

The man had died quickly, but in great pain, Geralt surmised. The severity of the wounds had meant the soldier would have bled out before succumbing to anything else, the blood pooling in his torso still liquid. Geralt began to inspect the man’s head, which appeared untouched, save for the blood coating it. He turned the man onto his side to inspect his back but stopped short as his cat eyes passed over the neck, noticing two small wholes over the soldier’s carotid artery.

 _So it was a vampire_ , he thought. It explained the efficiency of the killings, as well as their brutality. It did not, however, explain why he was still alive, and where Jaskier’s body was.

It must have been an intelligent vampire, to leave someone alive or steal a corpse, ruling out an Ekimara or a Fleder, and its appearance during the day ruled out Katakans. That left Bruxae, Alps, and Nosferats, as each were “Greater” vampires and not susceptible to the sun.

Geralt began to examine the wounds on the soldier’s chest closer, noting the depth and patterning of the wounds. They were consistent with the marks from claws two to three inches in length, and the plate armour and flesh torn in one motion. 

_Fuck, it’s strong_ , thought Geralt, imagining the force needed to rend metal and skin in one thrust.

“A Nosferat, it must be” Geralt told the quiet afternoon. No vampire, save for Higher Vampires, had the sheer strength to do such. His revelation left the witcher confused, no Nosferat would leave a potential victim alive, the bloodlust to which the creatures succumbed was too powerful. And yet Geralt continued to live, unharmed by the beast.

He turned his back to the corpse and moved to retrieve his swords, which had been scattered amidst the bodies. As he bent to recover his silver sword from underneath a body, he saw a flash of blue. A torn piece of silk lay on the ground, dirty, but unmistakeable Jaskier’s. The feeling Geralt had been working to suppress shot through him, his pulse racing and a sickly feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. 

As he remembered the look on the bard’s face as he fell, blood pouring from his throat, a sensation tore through him. An emotion Geralt never learned the name of, one which replaced the familiar heat of rage with a clammy numbness that stiffened his limbs and quickened his pulse. 

Jaskier was dead, his body missing, taken by some beast, because of him. The bard who, somehow, not only tolerated Geralt, but chose to follow him across the continent. The one who trusted Geralt to keep him safe, who counted him as a friend. He was dead. And it was because of Geralt, his negligence, his selfish desire to continue travelling with the bard.

Geralt let out a sob, his witcher training and mutations unable to diminish the sheer intensity of his grief. His body began to move, collecting and packing his gear, while his mind remained in a vortex of emotions. He re-secured his potions and oils, tightened his armour, moving out of instinct rather than intention. He left the camp, walking towards the path that led to the next town.

He found Roach five minutes later, still saddled and contentedly chewing on some clover. She had fled during the violence but stayed close, the loyal beast. He pet her neck and quickly mounted the saddle, glad to have her with him.

As he sat atop Roach, riding down the narrow dirt road that lead to the next hamlet, Geralt knew he had to find and kill the monster who stole Jaskier.

 _No, destroy the monster, and leave its corpse to rot. Like it did to Jaskier_ , some part of him thought. The one who took his chance at revenge against the Nilfgaardians, and his chance to grieve his bard. His friend, as much as Geralt was reluctant to admit it.

So he sat and plotted, and raged, and grieved, overwhelmed by loss, as the massacre faded into the past, and an uncertain destiny loomed before him.


	2. A Small Disquiet

They had been keeping a steady pace towards Petrelsteyn for a week, Geralt resting only when necessary, preferring to push forwards. He often fell into a meditative state, focusing on the wind, and the feeling of Roach moving beneath him, trying to ignore the gaping hole which had opened in his chest. It almost worked, listening to distant bird songs, feeling the dewy chill of early mornings, immersing himself in sensations.

But sometimes the quiet was too still, and for a second he would wish Jaskier was there, just to fill the silence. Then all his rage, and sorrow, his loneliness, would return, and he would be adrift.

Geralt and Roach arrived at Petrelsteyn mid-morning, a week after the attack. The village was quaint, with numerous wooden houses lining the main street and a small market in the town centre. It boasted a single tavern, but for Geralt, who had been on the path for almost a week, it seemed opulent. He headed straight to the tavern, tacking Roach on a fencepost before stepping inside.

The tavern was shockingly busy for the morning. Men and women crowded the tables, eating and drinking, but there was little chatter, and Geralt could smell the bitter scent of unease that permuted the room on its occupants.

He sat at the bar and bought a bath and room for the night. Geralt was looking forward to a real bed and a warm meal. His fantasizing was cut short by a man’s shout, far louder than necessary in the sombre tavern.

“Oi. Master Witcher.” A portly townsman was yelled at him, his thick Kerak accent obscuring his words. “I’ve a contract for you.”

Geralt acknowledged the man with a grunt and stood, turning to face him. The man was short, coming up to just below Geralt’s chin, middle-aged, with yellowed teeth and breath that stank of ale. He wore a ceremonial pin indicating that he was the town’s Ealdorman. Geralt noticed the man’s hands trembled irregularly, and when he made eye contact with the man, saw his eyes were bloodshot.

“There’s been a beast afoot, terrorizing the town. It started near a week ago, folk disappearing at dusk and returning at dawn with no memory of the night. And it’s only gotten worse.” He said. “We’ve taken to staying awake, so the beast can’t lure us away. Hasn’t been working.”

The man grimaced, then continued, “My own daughter disappeared last night, vanished into the woods, then returned come dawn in a stupor.”

That explains his appearance, thought Geralt. The man hadn’t slept in days.

“Do you know anything else about the monster? Where it hunts?” Geralt asked. “Do any of the victims remember anything?”

“Aye to the first part. It’s in the woods to the north, where the old estate is. All its victims appear there.”

Geralt looked at the man, confused. “The estate?”

“The old lord’s residence, the family ruled around here, till the son got himself killed like a fool. Likely chasing some lass.” The man paused, looking at Geralt, who motioned for him to continue. “My father was a boy when it happened, but he told me the stories.”

“Anything else? From the victims maybe?” Geralt asked, eager to end the man’s ramblings.

“I told you, none of its victims remember anything.” Replied the Ealdorman.

“Are you sure?” asked Geralt, as he discretely cast Axii. The man's eyes went glassy as he slipped under the Witcher’s control. “Actually, a traveller stumbled into town near a week before you did, run completely ragged. Going on about some creature that kidnapped him. Sounds an awful lot like ours.” The man admitted, voice monotonous. “He’s with our cunning woman, though she said he’s likely to die.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Geralt all but growled, his patience with the man wearing thin.

“He’s a Black One. Bugger’s better off dead.” The Ealdorman responded, backing away from the Witcher. “Didn’t want you to try to save him.”

Geralt had heard enough. He grabbed his coin pouch from the bar, and walked out of the building, determined to find the man the Ealdorman spoke of.

He considered the habits of the monster that plagued the town. Seemingly nocturnal, clever enough to lure its victims, and able to obscure their memories. Very few monsters fit in all of those categories, and unfortunately, most vampires did.

Why would it attack the Nilfgaardians, leave me alive, and then begin luring townsfolk to an abandoned ruin? I’ve got to be missing something, he thought. Some behaviours fit a Nosferat individually, but together they made little sense. Geralt knew he wasn’t getting anywhere, and to instead see if he could learn more from the Nilfgaardian who saw the beast.

While he made his way to the Herbalist, Geralt took some time to look around. The dirt streets and wooden houses seemed which seemed indistinct from any other village at first glance, showed signs of neglect upon closer inspection. Pieces of thatch hanging off of roofs, weeds taken root in gardens. Small degradations that were left unfixed.

They’re all so scared of the beast, they won’t even go out during the day, Geralt remarked to himself. The creature had been there less than a week and already the town was suffering. He would have to find it quickly.

Geralt could smell the Herbalist’s house before he could see it. The acidic scent of burning herbs, and the familiar tang of blood wafting down the street. As he approached the house, he saw the windows wide open, and the door ajar.

The Witcher approached the entrance and knocked gently at the frame. “Anyone home?” He heard no reply, so he stepped through the threshold and into the house. The stench of herbs was strongest inside, Geralt able to detect Celedine and Myrtle petals amongst the smoke.

Well, the woman knows her herbs, he thought. Similar blend to Swallow, missing the drowner brain though. He let out a chuckle.

Geralt could see a light coming from an adjacent room, coming through a cloth curtain, the Herbalist’s shadow appearing in the dim light. He pushed through the blinds and entered the small room. A small, mousey woman who Geralt assumed was the Herbalist stood over a low cot, where a man lay. Pots of incense lined the windows, and a cauldron of something was boiling in the open fireplace.

The woman turned around, facing Geralt. “Ah, a witcher. Here about the attacks then?”

Geralt nodded and let out a grunt, tilting his jaw towards the sick man.

“He came barreling into town nearly a week ago, middle of the day, yelling about some monster that had kidnapped him. He looked as if a corpse were walking, so they brought him to me.” She said while applying a scented cloth to the man’s forehead. “You think he’s another one of the creature’s victims?

Geralt snorted. “I know he is.” He looked at the man’s bare chest, which had deep gashes running through it, each about an inch apart and seeping blood. There was a thick poultice surrounding them, likely to stop the bleeding, and cloths were laid on his neck and wrists, each stained a dark red.

Fuck. He looks like hell, Geralt thought. Monster didn’t play around. The staining on the cloth was unusual, most injuries would have clotted over a week. Wounds shouldn’t still be open. There’s got to be something in him.

The man moaned, writhing on the bloodied linens.

Geralt sniffed the air, focusing past the thick smell of incense. There was something in the man’s blood, deeper than the coppery tang, a necrotic smell that peaked in intensity with the man’s heartbeat.

“He’s got venom in his blood.” Geralt grunted. “You can’t save him.”

The Herbalist audibly gasped and took a step back. “The poor man. Can nothing be done?”

Geralt pursed his lips and shook his head, looking upwards at the man’s neck to find the puncture wound to confirm his diagnosis. He saw the familiar bite marks, piercing deep into his artery, his fresh blood flowing in small rivulets. The smell of decay was strongest near the bite, where the venom had entered his body.

It was the same damn vampire, he thought. His gaze lingered briefly on the wound, then travelled upwards. Geralt froze, he knew the man. It was the Nilfgaardian commander who had attacked them.

Something snapped inside the Witcher. The man had taken Jaskier from him. Killed him in cold blood, needlessly. He pushed the Herbalist away and heard her protest, but he didn’t care. He gripped the man by the collar, lifting him from the bed. The Nilfgaardian became lucid, eyes focusing on the enraged Witcher, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Why?” The question came out as a guttural growl, Geralt unable to control himself. “You didn’t have to kill him, but you did. Tell me why.” His teeth bared and golden eyes glowing in the dim light, Geralt looked closer to his namesake than to a human.

“Kill him, what are you…” the Nilfgaardian mumbled, his head lolling backwards. “That thing… not human.” The man went slack. Heat raced through Geralt, and the world seemed to narrow. A hand moved to the man’s throat, slippery with blood, squeezing and tearing, through a haze.

“Don’t you dare.” The shaky voice of the Herbalist cut through Geralt’s broke from his trance, his blood-covered arm falling to his side.

She moved closer to the Witcher, putting herself between him and the Nilfgaardian. “You will not kill a man in my home. A man who is under my care.” She met his gaze, staring unflinchingly into them.

Geralt dropped the man, stepping backwards. He felt feverish. The room was closing in on him, shadows dancing across the floor towards him. He could hear singing, Jaskier’s singing, the clanging of steel, and the crackle of a fire. The room smelled of burnt hair, and rot, and celandine.

The hut’s door slammed behind him as he fled.

Geralt sat in a basin, the water having cooled long ago. He had meant to bathe, then find a meal, but he felt stuck. The afternoon’s events were repeating in his mind. The feeling of losing control, slipping into rage and desperation was nothing new. But the terror that had followed, one that wet his palms and choked his breath, was new.

He was made to push through fear, to fight monsters that would kill ordinary men with ease. The mutations dulled his response to stressors, undercutting self-preservation, and replacing it with anger. But fear wasn’t unknown to him; he had felt its clammy grasp before. At Kaer Morhen when he underwent the trials, during his first contract, and with Renfri, but he had never lost himself to it.

Today was different, and Geralt knew it. The emotional whiplash he had felt upon seeing the Nilfgaardian had undercut his defences. He had let fear in, allowed it to consume him and dig its talons into his heart. His heart rate was still elevated, and his breaths were shallow. Witchers didn’t panic, but Geralt had. And it terrified him.

His wrath had surprised him too. Geralt had wanted to kill the man, wrap his hands around his open throat him and watch the life slip from him. He wanted to revel in his pain. The selfish part of Geralt still did, he wanted to avenge Jaskier, to enact pain upon the man who had stolen him. It horrified Geralt, coming so close to losing control. He was no stranger to murder, he had killed plenty of men, but never a defenceless man, one already destined to die. And if the Herbalist hadn’t stopped him, he would have.

I’m losing it, he thought, suddenly hyperaware of the frigid water. He stood and left the tub, drying himself with a towel. The sun hung low outside the window, and Geralt heard revelries below him. His stomach rumbled and he swore. He still needed to eat, and prepare to fight the vampire, he had lingered far too long in the cool waters.

Geralt re-dressed and went downstairs. The tavern was even more packed than in the morning, the brave few who ventured out during the day having returned to the safety of the bar. Conversation was flowing freely, people relieved of their tension by good food and drink. Geralt heard the piping of a bard and the laughter of a child. He felt the joy in the room wash over him, draining the tension from his shoulders. The swords on his back somehow felt a little lighter.

He ate, thanking the barkeep before he left, and exited. He found Roach in the stables, where the workers had moved her. She whinnied at him when he entered, clearly unhappy with him for interrupting her meal.

“Yeah I know, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have left you saddled up for this long.” He said as he unhooked her bags. She nuzzled into his head as he retrieved Vampire Oil and Moondust bombs from within the pouches. He hesitated for a second before grabbing his last vial of Blackblood, placing it on his belt with care. He would oil his blade on the way there, as he didn’t want it to dry.

He did a quick once over, checking his silver blade for any damage, before patting Roach on the head and leaving. The path northwards, to the woods, was easy to follow as it wound around the town. The trees seemed taller and more foreboding in the dim twilight.

Geralt turned as he passed the last house, and surveyed the town, seeing the flickering lights of the tavern, and hearing its festive music spill from its doors and wind down the streets. He looked ahead once more at the dark forest, illuminated by the last light of dusk. He was ready to end this, the anticipation rippling through his body. The monster would die.


End file.
